A Story to Die For

“A Story to Die For” (~1000 words)

His Gotham studio apartment was poorly lit. Streaks of moonlight flooded the room through barred windows. It smelled musty too, like old people that had lived too long. The door knock came as expected, and Barnabas Black, pacing close by, opened the door promptly.

Clank.

The door’s chained lock stopped it from opening completely.

“Who is it?,” said Barnabas suspiciously. He hunched over his fit frame, one eye peering through the crack in the door. Outside was a frail man, wearing a green sweater and glasses.

“Maxwell,” said the visitor quite calmly, pulling his travel bag over his shoulder. “Tell me this isn’t another fit like you had when Vampire Lovers flopped in its first week…”

Barnabas didn’t answer right away, but fidgeted with the lock nervously. He finally opened the door.

“I need ideas, Max, not jokes,” he said solemnly as he returned to the familiar card table next to the whiteboard. Max flipped on a light and followed.

“Don’t forget the lock,” said Barnabas sharply. “Papparazzi’s busted through there a couple of times now trying to get a picture of me wallowing. I’ve been thinking about getting heavier locks installed, maybe even a dog.”

They sat down in their usual seats, and prepared to work. From his travel bag, Maxwell pulled a worn notebook, protruding pen still keeping his place. This is where they always sat when they brainstormed.

“So, what’s hot right now?” asked Barnabas, pouring a glass of amber liquid. The smell was sharp, and Maxwell eyed the glass. “Here,” added Barnabas politely, “it’s your favorite.” Maxwell nodded his thanks as he raised the glass, then tilted his head back finishing the drink in one dry gulp. He wheezed and coughed as if he had just swallowed Listerine.

“Romantic vampire novels, Barnabas,” he said in a raspy tone. He cleared his throat. “The gals love ‘em, and you know they make the majority of purchase decisions.”

Barnabas leaned back in his chair, and ran a hand through his jet-black hair. “I have been trying to write that kind of vampire, Max, but it just seems unnatural, like drinking coffee with a fork.”

“Hey, nobody writes the classic vampire as well as you do, Barnabas,” said Maxwell, reminiscing. “It’s just the trend has gone to the soft, fallible vampires. You know, the kind that go to high school, glitter in the sunlight, and only drink animals’ blood.” Barnabas shifted in his chair.

“I’ve been writing the romantic vampire, Max, and the critics have been… how did the last one put it? Ah, putting a proverbial stake in me.,” said Barnabas through gritted teeth. “I need something new, Max. Give me something new, or I’m… dust.” Maxwell sniggered.

“Okay,” said Maxwell as he got up, wagging a knuckle in the air. “I think I’ve got something.” He grabbed a red marker and pressed a streak onto the whiteboard, then stopped.

“Wait, I’ve got it,” he said. Barnabas leaned forward in his seat. “Roots… You need to go back to what made you successful in the first place, Barnabas. Like I said, no one writes the traditional vampire with as much texture as you.”

“No, Max.”

“I know it was traumatic, Barnabas, what with the killings and all, but the police said they caught the culprit.” Barnabas looked away. “You’d almost be a shoe-in for the New York Times Best Seller list again, eh?”

“You’d be willing to invite the killing again, just for accolades?,” said Barnabas incredulously.

“Barnabas, you aren’t the first author to have a serial killer mimic his published works,,” said Maxwell matter-of-factly. “Granted, that was a PR nightmare for me, but we got through it, and in the end, the cops got their guy.”

Maxwell reached into his bag and pulled out his client’s last best-selling novel. “Listen to this. You can’t tell me that this doesn’t bring back good memories:

“The need was upon him. The pull was more powerful than any drug he had tried. Centuries of trying told him he could not fight it, so he didn’t anymore. It started in the pit of his stomach, something far worse than hunger, insatiable, and primal. It was a feeling of instant starvation. Finally it made its way to his mouth. His gums spasmed.”

“Stop…” moaned Barnabas. “Please…”

Maxwell jerked up from the book to see Barnabas’ face in his quivering hands.

Barnabas’ breathing grew deeper. “I shouldn’t have invited you here.”

“Hey, are you okay?” asked Maxwell. He had never seen a fit quite like this. “I just thought if I could read you some of your best work…”

“Leave,” said Barnabas, his voice shaky. “Do you want the killings to start again?”

“No,” said Maxwell, as he wiped a handkerchief across his brow. “They caught him already.”

“No?” They both sat in deafening silence for what seemed like a long moment.

Barnabas sighed, his voice suddenly quite composed. “I think I have a new plot to run past you.”

“Alright.”

“The hardest part about my writing is the plot. I have to think of the victims, and how the murders take place, and then how to cover it all up. It’s a very dark place to go.”

“Let’s hear it then.”

“Two men sit in a room like we are here.”

“Okay,” Maxwell said playfully. They had brainstormed like this for years. “I’ve got it.”

“An unsuspecting agent goes to visit his favorite, but struggling, author.”

“Unsuspecting?,” said Maxwell, with a quiet chuckle.

“I’ll explain that shortly.”

“Fine.”

“The agent begs him to bring back the murders that fueled his most successful series of books.” Maxwell shifted in his chair at this wording.

“What’s the plot twist?”

“That only one of the men is human,” said Barnabas, a twinkle of moonlight in his eye.

Maxwell felt his heart beat a little faster. “You know, I left something in the car that could be very…”

“The most ironic thing…”

“What?”

“He’s locked himself in.”